


Stupid with a Flare Gun

by remmyme



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angsty Dean, Blindfolds, Car Sex, Episode: s05e03 Free to Be You and Me, M/M, Masturbation, PWP, but what's new, thirsty dean, yes i'm very late to the party
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 08:19:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10553112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/remmyme/pseuds/remmyme
Summary: “Look,” Dean grits, pinching at the bridge of his nose, “You’ve got a body.Yourbody.” (Castiel, not long ago: “Jimmy…his soul was not returned to me.”) “You’re gonna damn well learn how to use it.” The hunter reaches under the seat to jerk at the lever, sliding back the whole of the front bench and badly startling Castiel with the unexpected jolt of movement. “And, hate to break it to you, but this town’s really not that big. You just got yourself kicked out of the only joint that’s got the professionals at work.”Dean twists to lean against the car door, pulling up a leg to lay across the seat. The moment stretches, silent and tense.“I ain’t gonna fuck you,” he says, voice gruff, “but I’ll talk you through it.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from Deep Purple's ['Smoke on the Water'](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zUwEIt9ez7M)
> 
> A THANK YOU to [sharkfish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waitforspring) and [fanforfanatic](http://archiveofourown.org/users/fanforfanatic/pseuds/fanforfanatic) for kicking my butt into gear; I needed the push!
> 
> Um...enjoy the pron?

Dean fairly collapses into the driver’s seat, breathless from the fits of laughter he still can’t quite get a grip over. Castiel, on the other hand, folds into the passenger’s side much more sedately – each movement slow, with the sense of heavy deliberation the angel tends to apply to most things he does; like even the simple act of getting into a car is a strange and novel experience.

“Shit,” Dean manages between chuckles. “Really, Cas? The post office?”

Castiel cuts his eyes to Dean, a smile tugging at his lips. “He wanted to live on the sea,” he says. “He’s a commercial crabber, now. In Brunswick.”

Dean tumbles into a fresh bout of laughter. “Well, whad’ya know,” he snickers. “Dreams do come true.”

Dean’s amusement eventually calms, though he makes no move to crank the car. He hadn’t expected Cas’s first foray into the pleasures of the flesh to be cut so short, and he probably needs a few minutes to ride out the buzz of two beers downed in less than a half hour before attempting the drive back. For now, he’s content to lay his head back against the seat and enjoy the moment.

It’s Castiel, surprisingly, who’s first to break the silence. “Dean,” he intones, squinting out at the alley, towards the club they had oh-so-hastily vacated. “Why is sex important to you?”

Dean snorts and rolls his head towards Castiel; who is, of course, staring right back. “It ain’t just me, buddy. If we’re talking Humanity’s Greatest Hits, sex is pretty high up there.”

Castiel continues to look at Dean expectantly.

Dean sighs explosively. “I don’t know, man! It just—” a vague, waving hand gesture, “it feels good, you know?”

Dean cuts off, realizing that, no, Castiel _doesn’t_ know that sex is messy and fun and physical and _human_. It’s how they ended up here in the first place, isn’t it? Dean can bullshit with the best of them; sell it under _last night on earth, going out with a bang_ – but, really, 'last night on earth' is a Winchester’s Tuesday. He’s got no intention of dying tomorrow. And neither will Cas, if Dean’s got anything to say about it.

Truth of it is: here’s Castiel, Angel of the Lord and fugitive of Heaven, who rebelled – who _died_ – for Dean and humanity. And that’s something Dean’s still having a hell of a time wrapping his head around. Dean knows he’s done fuck-all to deserve it, knows he’s the last guy you’d want to hitch your hopes on. Hell, he’s already failed once, at that goddamn convent – always just that bit too little, too late.

Which means…the fight for humanity’s all that’s left. Free will and all the pain, ugliness, fear; love and joy and _sex_ that comes with it.

So here they are, Dean trying his damnedest to show Cas why the world’s worth saving.

The hunter runs a critical eye over the angel, taking in the loosened tie and half-open shirt, hair that’s moved past its usual windswept and straight into ‘fuck me’ mussed. None of which Castiel has bothered to set to rights since they left the club, Dean notes with some amusement.

“I mean, you obviously had _something_ going on before Chasity gave you the boot.” Dean tactfully ignores Castiel’s furrowed brow and abortive look to his own shoes. “That did nothing for you?”

Cas stares hard at nothing for a long moment, the same half-confused, half-considering look he got when Dean gave him the ‘humans lie’ talk.

“It felt…strange,” he says haltingly. “She kissed me,” Castiel taps two fingertips to the bolt of his own jaw, “here. And…” Cas trails his fingers down to the base of his neck, and Dean’s really not sure what to make of the way the angel’s eyes flutter half-shut as he does so. “Here.”

Castiel frowns down at his chest, hand dropping to the undone buttons of his shirtfront. “She…” he says, low, and hooks his fingers into the fabric, drags it open to expose more of his chest and, yeah, this time there’s no mistaking the hitch in Cas’s breath as his nails scrape over something small and round and dark, still mostly hidden in the shadow of fabric.

“Hey, whoa!” Dean exclaims, throwing up both hands, palms out, “I didn’t ask for a show and tell!”

Castiel shoots Dean a sharp look, but thankfully pulls his hand out from inside his shirt. Dean cautiously lowers his own. He powers on, deciding he’s not going to let a little angel-born social awkwardness distract him from his point. “See? It felt good, right?”

Castiel, however, looks more frustrated than ever. “I don’t… I want…” Cas sucks in a short breath and locks eyes with Dean, looking stricken; irritation lost to wide-eyed confusion and _fear,_ and what had been funny earlier in the club very suddenly isn’t, here in the dark and quiet.

“Hey, _no_. No way, Cas,” Dean says, firm and sure. “You don’t feel bad for wanting things, you hear me? That’s not you, not anymore.”

The angel shakes his head, once, sharp, and frowns at the dash. Dean waits him out, ‘cause hell if he knows what the guy’s thinking. No telling what kind of Pleasantville-esque issues Castiel is working though following his – metaphorical, thank fuck – fall from grace.

Castiel’s hands curl into fists at his knees, knuckles white.

“I want to know,” he says defiantly, and damn if Dean isn’t a little proud of the guy. “I want to know. Why it’s important. I want— I want to—” Castiel breaks off on a wordless noise of pained frustration and abruptly presses a hand between his legs, to the bulge those loose suit pants do fuck-all in hiding but Dean's been willfully ignoring.

“Fuck,” Dean curses, but doesn’t tell Cas to stop; instead turning to drop his head to his hands clenched tight on the steering wheel. Gathering his thoughts, the hunter runs through the – unfortunately few – available options for dealing with a horny angel.

“Okay,” he says, sitting up, only a handful of seconds later. “Take off the damn coat.”

Castiel’s gaze swings to Dean, wide-eyed and unsure. "Dean?"

“Look,” Dean grits, pinching at the bridge of his nose, “You’ve got a body. _Your_ body.” (Castiel, not long ago: “ _Jimmy…his soul was not returned to me._ ”) “You’re gonna damn well learn how to use it.” The hunter reaches under the seat to jerk at the lever, sliding back the whole of the front bench and badly startling Castiel with the unexpected jolt of movement. “And, hate to break it to you, but this town’s really not that big. You just got yourself kicked out of the only joint that’s got the professionals at work.”

Dean twists to lean against the car door, pulling up a leg to lay across the seat. The moment stretches, silent and tense.

“I ain’t gonna fuck you,” he says, voice gruff, “but I’ll talk you through it.”

Dean crosses his arms, leather squeaking as he settles in, repeats, “Take off the damn coat, Cas.”

To his credit, Castiel only hesitates a moment before shrugging out of the oversized trench, leaving it to bunch at his back. He looks to Dean in question; _What now?_

“Jesus.” Dean lifts his eyes to the Impala’s roof, despairing in the face of Castiel’s special brand of cluelessness. “Jacket, too.” Fuck, this is a horrible idea. “And stop looking at me! It’s creepy!”

Castiel, the little shit, keeps his glare firmly locked on Dean the entire way through jerkily removing the suit jacket. He pointedly drops it in the minimal space between them.

Dean swallows around a suddenly dry throat.

Horrible, _horrible_ idea.

Dean’s not so far up his own ass that he fails to see how monumentally stupid this is. He knows they’re technically in public – the dark and quiet of the late hour, the close and familiar spaces of the Impala only giving the illusion of privacy. He knows he could have – should have – laughed it off, called it a night as soon as they’d stumbled out that back-alley door. _Sorry buddy, better luck next time_.

He knows he’s pushing. He knows why.

Because…because Cas is _gorgeous_ , god, so fucking gorgeous, and doubly so when he’s angry. Because Dean’s got a brand on his shoulder that sparks with proximity and _I gripped you tight_ echoing in his mind with annoying frequency. Because Dean – human and Hell-stained and disappointment to all – knows he’s got no right, but fuck it all, he wants to see it; wants to be witness and conductor to an angel’s need. Because there’s a part of him – a stupid, selfish, impossible part of him – that wants to think Cas wants it, too.

Dean inhales a shaky breath. “Just… Shut your eyes, man.”

Castiel’s eyes close on a slow blink, holding shut for all of three seconds before opening again to fix on Dean – always on Dean, curiosity and trust and endless intensity.

And Dean just, he just _can’t_ , okay?

He jerks forward, right into Cas’s space and he’s not thinking about the fact that Castiel sways _in_ rather than away, he’s not. Dean’s got no idea what his hands are doing until they’re already moving, sharply tugging at the loosened tie around Castiel’s neck until it’s out from under the collar, the loop of it open enough to slide up past Castiel’s chin, his lips, his nose and come even with the angel’s startled and questioning eyes. Dean pulls the tie back tight, and within moments he’s got Cas’s eyes effectively covered; the deep blue of the fabric a shocking slash of color below the angel’s brow, the tie’s knot snug at the back of his head.

Fuck. Fuck, did he just _blindfold an angel?_

“Dean,” Cas says, low, and Dean realizes his breathing is too fast, too harsh; that he’s got one hand fisted in Castiel’s hair and the other gripped on his shoulder, thumb pressing in hard at the fabric of the angel’s collar. “Dean,” and Castiel (blindly, oh, fuck) turns his head, just a bit, and suddenly Dean’s taking in shuddering breaths of the air from Castiel’s own mouth; wide and soft and lips very, very pink.

“No,” he says, and the word sounds ripped from his throat, cracked and wet. Dean carefully untangles his fingers from Castiel’s hair but fails to resist the urge to rake through it once in parting. The soft and shocked noise Cas makes as he does hits like something physical. Dean squeezes his eyes shut, takes a steadying breath and pulls back to his side of the seat. “No, Cas, this is for you.”

Lies, lies, always he lies.

“You okay?”

Castiel tilts his head, considering. He nods once.

“Okay.” Dean presses his back hard against the Impala door. “Okay. Why don’t you, uh.” He scrubs a rough hand over his jaw. “You should unbutton your shirt.”

Castiel’s hands immediately move to the buttons, deftly plucking them open. He reaches the bottom and carefully tugs out the shirttails from his pants. He stills, hands hovering over his belt; a silent question.

“Yeah,” Dean says thickly. “But don’t touch.”

Castiel, miraculously seeming to catch Dean’s drift without him having to spell it out, unbuckles the belt and pops the button at his waist before obediently setting his hands flat against his thighs, fingers faintly trembling.

Dean stalls, then; stuck staring at the angel’s surprisingly slim torso. His elegant profile. His hands, broadcasting a loss of control Dean’s never seen from him before.

“Dean,” Castiel says. Like it’s the only fucking word he knows.

“I’m gonna get you there,” Dean somehow finds his voice, somehow pulls it together when faced with Castiel, _Cas_ , sightless and wanting and, in this, entirely dependent on Dean. “Above the belt. Show me what feels good, okay?”

Dean watches as Castiel’s hands haltingly slide up from his legs, never breaking contact. His left splays out and presses firm against his belly in an unconscious bid to relieve the pressure building a few inches below; the right travels up until his thumb skims over a nipple. His breath catches gorgeously, same as before.

“Yeah,” Dean rasps, trying and failing to keep the huskiness from his tone. “You like that.”

Cas catches on quick. He continues to swipe the pad of his thumb over his nipple, slow and exploratory, and Dean can oh-so-easily imagine the feel of it, that sweet little nub hardening under his own fingers. Cas changes it up, lets the rough edge of his nail catch on a sharp flick and a dark, punched-out growl catches in his throat as his hips jerk up into nothing and Dean is gone, gone, gone.

“It’s better when it’s wet,” he says, voice fucking _wreaked,_ so throaty it hurts. “Get ‘em wet.”

Castiel’s brows draw in above the blindfold in a frown – in confusion or irritation at being interrupted, Dean doesn’t know – but before he can think to clarify Castiel’s face smooths and he lifts his hand to suck two fingers into his mouth. And Cas just fucking _goes_ for it: pressing in deep, once, then pulling out on a slow drag before sealing his lips around just the tips, pumping in and out around the first knuckle in short little fucks. Dean can hear the dirty-slick noises of Castiel’s wet sucks and, god, fuck, he should have known, could have guessed that Cas would be like this; unselfconscious and uninhibited, eager to sin. Castiel hums around the thickness of his fingers – like he likes it, like it’s good – and Dean clenches his teeth against a debilitating wave of shivery heat.

Castiel pulls his fingers from between his lips, spit-shiny in the sodium-orange glow of the outside streetlights, and slicks them back across his nipple. Dean watches, greedy, as Cas slides his fingers in teasing circles, experiments with cautious pinches. And the way he _sounds,_ fuck, a continuous stream of unchecked low and rough noises of pure want.

His eyes dip lower and Dean bites his lip _hard_ against a groan of his own. Goddamn sneaky _cheater_ ; though Dean’s having trouble gathering his thoughts enough to care as he takes in the sight of Cas’s other hand pushed lower on his abdomen than it ever was before; past the waist of his undone slacks and fingers wormed in under the band of a pair of plain white boxers. The hand is restless, fingers tugging and scratching through the dark wiry hair he’s found there, hips hitching in off-beat, unsatisfying pushes.

It’s…it’s fucking _obscene_ , is what it is; a naïve and dirty display of restraint and frustration. Cas _wants_ it, wants so badly to touch but can’t, won’t, is waiting to learn how.

Dean flexes his own fingers to remind himself of their place, clenched in the heavy denim of his jeans. Cas, meanwhile, pushes lower, his boxers riding down until they very obviously catch on the base of Castiel’s cock. Jesus, Cas’s _cock_ , and suddenly Dean can’t wait any longer.

“Fuckin’ _do it,_ Cas _._ ”

Castiel bodily jolts at Dean’s voice, jerkily shaking his head even as he drops the hand from his nipple to clumsily palm at his cock through the fabric of his boxers. And at that first touch, inadequate though it must be, Castiel _groans_ – head falling to the seat backrest, mouth open and panting; already fucking losing it and he’s barely gotten started.

“Dean.” _Fuck_. “ _Dean_. I can’t, I—” Both hands now, gripping and pressing at where he wants it most but not skin-to-skin, not _in_. _"How?”_ and Dean again lurches forward, knowing what he can and can’t do but he can be closer, right? Cas needs him to be closer.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Dean sooths, braced hovering over Castiel and speaking directly into his ear; head ducked in, one knee putting wrinkles in the stupid jacket between them and one hand gripping the seat near Cas’s head, close enough to feel the tickle of his thick hair. Cas gasps at Dean’s sudden proximity and Dean murmurs a sound of wordless comfort. “You can, okay?”

“ _You_ can,” Cas counters, and Dean’s breath catches even as he presses his forehead to the side of Castiel’s for the other to feel him shake his head in denial. Cas growls his frustration. “Why are you—? Dean, _please_.”

Dean ignores him, ignores the begging born of desperation and the warmth radiating from his shoulder and god _damn it_ he’s so fucking hard. But he ignores it all and teasingly deflects, “C’mon, Cas. If you don’t do it yourself, how are you ever gonna learn?”

“ _Dean_ ,” Castiel says, demanding and petulant and with a creeping note of irritation that’s so typically _Cas_ Dean can’t help but laugh.

He buries his nose into Castiel’s hair, presses his words into the skin behind his ear. “It’s gonna be so good, Cas. You’ll see.”

Dean lifts his head just enough to see down the length of Cas’s body, to where Castiel is still slowly and inexpertly kneading at his dick over his boxers. Dean scoots his leg in closer so he can comfortably sit on it; knee pressing into Castiel’s hip and ass digging into the heel of his boot.

“Take out your cock.”

Castiel’s hands pause; a beat of sweet anticipation before he obeys, pulling down the boxers until his cock springs free.

“Fuck, that’s pretty,” Dean breathes, words unbidden and too revealing but he _is_ ; flushed pink, cut, wet at the tip and fuck, Dean wants to suck him. 

Cas chokes on a whine and takes himself in a loose-fingered grip, fingertips pushing and pressing, exploring and eager but nowhere close to good enough. “More. Tighter,” Dean commands, and his breath stops right along with Cas’s to see his big, broad-palmed hand wrap around his dick properly. It stays there, gripping and unmoving. “C’mon,” Dean urges mindlessly, eyes flicking up to catch on the blindfold, again surprised to be met by the navy tie rather than the impossible blue of the angel’s gaze. “C’mon, Cas, _move_.”

Cas does, though certainly not in the way Dean expects; rolls his head abruptly towards Dean, mouth soft and searching and Dean's forced to jerk back to avoid contact. Castiel’s nose bumps into Dean’s hand on the seat, breath hot along Dean’s fingers as he groans in irritation – denied the kiss he was so shamelessly reaching for.

Dean feels wide-eyed, heart thumping on a rush of adrenaline and well on the way to working himself into a proper _what the fuck_ but Cas doesn’t let him catch a break, ignores the rejection completely to mouth wetly at Dean’s fingers as he finally begins to jack his cock properly, tight and steady and fucking perfect. Castiel moans against Dean’s fingers – long and so deep Dean swears he can feel it in his fucking _toes_ – and Dean’s distracted enough by the slick slide of Cas’s thumb over the head of his dick that he completely fails to pull away.

(And Cas probably planned it that way, the bastard.)

Dean’s fingertips press lightly at Castiel’s jaw, his cheek, his plush, slack mouth and he hooks them in without a thought; pulling at Cas’s teeth as he falls further open, so fucking easy.

“Suck ‘em.” Dean says, completely aware he’s lost his freakin’ mind and no longer giving a single goddamn shit, because Cas’s lips are sealing around two of his fingers and Dean can feel the burning heat of him, presses down on Cas’s tongue just to feel him push back.

Cas says something, then, maybe a _Dean_ or a _please_ but it’s lost behind the girth of Dean’s fingers, and doubly covered by the frankly mortifying whimper that escapes as Castiel swallows around him. Cas sucks like a fucking pro and never once falters in the long and even pulls at his cock, but Dean can tell it’s building, that Cas is getting close; can see it in the restlessness of Cas’s hips and tightness at his eyes, apparent even around the tie.

But more than that; Dean can _feel_ it, like a charge in the air itself, like it’s something they’re straining towards together, and all Dean can think is that he’s really fucking ready.

Dean pulls his fingers from Cas’s mouth, ignoring Castiel’s weak noise of protest and leaving a wet trail across one stubbled cheek as he moves to fist at Cas’s hair, lifting his head to duck back in and say, “Let me see it, Cas.”

His left hand goes to Castiel’s knee, most of Dean’s weight now braced against him. He knows Cas can take it. “Higher. Faster,” he directs, and Cas’s hand goes fast and slick at the head of his cock, his breath coming in hot, desperate pants around a mindless mantra of _DeanDeanDean_ and then he’s _there_.

The air goes fucking _electric_ in a way Dean’s definitely not imagining and, in an unexpected flurry of motion, Cas’s free hand swings up to smack unerringly to the brand on Dean’s shoulder. And Dean, Dean’s world _explodes_ – his whole sorry self shot through with toe-curling, vision-whitening, weak-kneed _impossible_ pleasure; the sweetest fucking rapture there ever was or ever could be.

It slowly fades, as all good things do; though even after it takes god knows how long to drag himself back and, when he does, it’s to find he’s all but collapsed into a sticky Cas and with an absolute mess in his own jeans.

“What, the _fuck_ ,” Dean pants, “did you just do?”

Cas is short of breath himself; sharp little gasps that seem dangerously close to panic. “Dean, _Dean_ , I’m sorry, I don’t— I don’t know what—” and, yeah, that’s enough of that.

Dean makes to pull his way up from where he’s ended up folded into Castiel’s chest; clumsily pawing at Cas’s shoulders for leverage until he can more-or-less faceplant into the top of Cas's head, lazily nosing at his hair and pressing soft kisses to the tousled strands. “Was awesome,” he says drowsily. “You’re awesome.”

And luckily, his point must get across because Castiel begins to calm, eventually loosening his death-grip on Dean’s shoulder for his hand to drop in a soothing stroke to his elbow, to his forearm and down until it comes to rest in a loose circlet around Dean’s wrist. 

“That was…” Cas says, slow and rough and really fucking pleased, “very enjoyable.”

Dean snorts indelicately into Cas’s hair, bringing up a hand to smooth it or ruffle it or just to have something to hold onto, who the fuck knows. But whatever his intention is, it’s derailed by the fact that his fingers get tangled in the goddamned blindfold he’d somehow forgotten was even there.

Suddenly, the ridiculousness of it all catches up to him, and Dean fucking _loses it;_ laughing like a fucking loon until he has to pull back and breathe, but then he catches sight of Cas’s face – eyes _still_ somehow covered by his crooked-as-shit navy tie, the quiet, tentative smile set below it and Dean just can’t freakin’ handle it; hides his face into Castiel’s shirt-covered shoulder as he laughs and laughs.

“Next time,” Dean says, reaching up to pull off the tie and revealing Cas’s beautiful, smiling eyes, “next time, I’m gonna actually see you come.”

Castiel runs a finger down Dean’s cheek, all reverence and awe and practically glowing in his happiness. “Yes,” he says, soft and sure. “That’s what I want.”


End file.
